


how to embrace a swamp creature

by princegrantaire



Series: a world with love [5]
Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics), Superman (Comics), Superman/Batman (Comics)
Genre: Bittersweet, Idiots in Love, Light Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Platonic Kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2019-07-05 22:36:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15873096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princegrantaire/pseuds/princegrantaire
Summary: Night is quickly evaporating around them, someone’s going to notice Superman’s having some technical difficulties withtheJoker on top of one of the tallest skyscrapers Metropolis has to offer.(Clark struggles with new-found friendship and lack of communication.)





	how to embrace a swamp creature

**Author's Note:**

> thank you @permaclown and @slaapkat on tumblr for unspeakable amounts of support!!!
> 
> this is yet another entry in the genre of "clark discovers his best friend is a complete weirdo", possibly unconnected to my previous fics with the same theme and possibly very connected, depending on ur opinion on prequels
> 
> enjoy!

“I’m not doing that.”

“What do you mean you’re not doing that? You don’t have a choice!”

Clark floats a few feet off the ground out of sheer frustration. Night is quickly evaporating around them, someone’s going to notice Superman’s having some technical difficulties with _the_ Joker on top of one of the tallest skyscrapers Metropolis has to offer.

“Joker, I’m not going to call Batman and tell him you--”

A shouted _fine_ is all the warning Clark gets before Joker’s plunging down. There’s a moment of hesitation here, where a life hangs by a thread opposite a million others, before Clark darts down too, lightning-quick against the wind.

It’s not the wrong thing to do. It certainly feels like it. Clark dives and catches Joker with barely a second to spare, he thinks even Ma might forgive him for considering the alternative. Joker weighs nothing and says nothing, one’s familiar, the other’s bizarre enough to warrant a second glance at the clown in his arms -- he’s certainly never seen Joker without hearing him first.

If those are tears cutting through the makeup around Joker’s eyes and getting lost along the sharp plains of his ghost-white face, well, Clark doesn’t quite want to know. It _has_ to be some sort of joke.

Whatever has led here, real or imagined, it’s clearly having a tangible effect on Joker. Those green eyes retain a glow long past inhuman but there’s honesty in there too and Superman believes in that much. Still mostly unwilling to send Bruce love declarations on Joker’s behalf, Clark flies to the nearest rooftop and sets his passenger down carefully.

Joker’s not a small man, as tall as Clark no matter how spidery he’s become, but he certainly looks it as he slides down against the roof’s ledge and hugs his knees to his chest.

It stops sounding like a prank around the same time Joker pulls his gloves off in a series of frenzied movements and presses his palms against his eyes, hard enough that he must be seeing stars by now. Clark hovers, unsure, then kneels down. He can’t tell how common of an occurrence this is. He’s seen Joker--

He’s seen Joker at his _best_. That seems clear now.

Bruised and bloodied on his way back to Arkham during those few times Clark had dropped by while Bruce was still on duty, _that_ was Joker on top of the world. His own rogues, vaguely recurring as they are, have certainly never gone through this sort of crisis in his vicinity. Lex would, even under duress, choose certain death over the sharp humiliation of vulnerability. For a terrifying moment, Joker’s guts prove impressive.

“Did-- something happen?” It’s silly to ask, Clark knows. The city’s waking up around them and Clark doesn’t try to pry Joker’s hands away. There’s nothing to hurry along here. He stays there, kneeling on a damp rooftop as the sun rises behind him, and waits.

A spindly leg kicks at him and Clark lets out a faint _oof_ for dignity’s sake. Joker looks alarmed as he pulls his hands away, wide-eyed as he glances over the dirtied _S_ on Clark’s suit.

 _If something happened, you need to tell me_ is what Clark doesn’t say. He’s already intruding, Joker doesn’t have to do anything Batman wouldn’t ask of him. The category extends beyond the comprehensible and as well as Clark knows Bruce’s not much for conversation, he’s seen him give criminals even less than that. It’s not too reassuring.

“That’s not your line.”

Super-hearing and all, Clark barely catches Joker’s mumbled retort. They’re so severely off-script, he’s almost forgotten Joker believes there _is_ one. Bruce told him about it once -- the game and their roles and the rest of what Joker’s convinced himself of just so he doesn’t fall apart. He’s never told Bruce just _how_ familiar it all is, how Batman sometimes sounds like nothing more than a variation on a theme.

Clark smiles despite himself and holds out his hands to Joker, hopes that’s enough to pull them through this. He doesn’t ask what Joker’s doing in Metropolis, no matter how much he wants to.

One quick check reveals Lex is still sleeping, that familiar steady heartbeat resounding through his penthouse. If that had been Joker’s original destination, he’d certainly made his exit long before Clark had noticed his presence. The investigative journalist in Clark tells him that couldn’t have been the case.

And just like that, Joker takes his hands, clinging on to him for dear life. Joker’s hands aren’t calloused as much as a mess of untraceable scars, knives or batarangs seem to have made their way _through_ his palms on more than one occasion. There are vertical scratches leading up his wrists, fresh and raw-looking on chalk-white skin -- the trail disappears into his sleeves and if Joker notices Clark’s gaze lingering, he doesn’t say anything.

Joker, Clark has learned, doesn’t shy away from the limits of tragedy. His suffering is Gotham’s suffering.

It’s not like him to keep quiet when he’s got an audience. Joker’s hand slips from Clark’s grasp all the same. They’re too high up for anyone to see, at least that certain hopes still persists, but it doesn’t make Joker’s longing looks towards the abyss below any less nauseating.

He could just take Joker back to Gotham, absolved of all responsibility, free to go about his day and maybe even make it to the Daily Planet in time for work. Whatever his instincts tell him, Clark knows the solution lies elsewhere.

It’s not an Arkham kind of day. If Joker’s willing to try, Clark is too. Gotham’s grey skies can wait another hour.

“Can you stay here?” He says the words slowly, gives Joker’s mind time to catch up to the modicum of trust thrust forward. A nod is, unsurprisingly, all he gets. “Promise not to move?”

Another nod.

In a gesture awkward enough to delve into life-threatening territory, Clark pats Joker’s shoulder -- bony even through layers and layers of clothing -- and takes off.

He can’t tell where he’s going and by the time he’s passed his meager little apartment five times in a row, he doesn’t think it matters. If it gets Joker talking, then it’s worth it.

 _What’s_ worth it, exactly, is a different matter. Clark isn’t much of a detective but he’s never met a problem he hasn’t tried to solve. As he spots an ice cream truck emerging from an alley, he thinks he might have just found his solution. It’s early but not too early for Superman.

The whole affair, aimless flying around included, takes less than a minute. When Clark makes it back on the roof, holding onto two vanilla ice cream cones topped off with rainbow sprinkles, Joker is sitting cross-legged and staring at nothing.

But he’s not laughing himself into a fit or screaming his love for Batman or jumping off rooftops so, maybe, it’s--

Definitely not _better_.

Clark sits down and offers Joker one of the ice cream cones. “I… I didn’t know what you like.” It _had_ seemed like a natural choice, at the time. Currently, Clark tries not to wilt under his own stupidity. If Joker’s about to laugh at him, he can only hope it happens soon enough. What Joker does, instead, is inhale half his ice cream in one go and fix Clark with a decidedly suspicious look.

Long past absurd, Clark stares back. They’re close enough that the distinctly chemical smell perpetually following Joker around needs no super-senses to be felt, though at the moment it’s something more like rubbing alcohol and sweat -- so near human, it’s downright unexpected.

“It’s good,” Joker says then leans across and licks the tip of Clark’s ice cream too, the very same one he hasn’t even started yet.

Still not looking like much of a joke. Clark smiles anyway, tentative and clumsy.

As Joker scarfs down the rest of his ice cream, Clark concludes it must be the first thing he’s eaten in days. Weeks, maybe, Joker’s capable of it.

“What happened?” he asks again, warm and persistent despite his best interest.

It’s never seemed as urgent as now to actually _talk_ to Bruce about Joker. They’re friends, Clark thinks. _Best_ friends, maybe. He’s taken good care not to look too deeply into it -- it’s fear, possibly, certain he’s about to find a relationship much shallower than imagined. Bruce doesn’t make it easy to get close to him. In the half hour they’ve spent together, Clark’s started to believe Joker’s let him see more than Bruce has ever dared.

Unsettling, to say the least.

“You don’t believe me, do you?” It’s the first full sentence Joker’s spoken since-- well, since before the jump. Clark can’t quite tell what he’s supposed to disbelieve. He hands Joker the rest of his own ice cream and hopes it’s enough incentive to continue. “About Batman.”

It’s always _Bats_ or _Batsy_ or _the Bat_.

“About love.”

Clark stiffens, feels the ensuing silence wash over him in waves. Of course. _Of course_ , he believes Joker.

“I do,” he breathes out, nods though he doesn’t need convincing. Joker’s only ever sincere in adoration for Batman, insistent and unnerving but certainly _sincere_. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Lex doesn’t,” Joker says, like that explains everything. “Batman doesn’t.”

There’s indignation rising up in Clark’s throat, he wants to argue, tell Joker that Bruce wouldn’t have let it go on for the past ten or so years if he hadn’t believed it. Something holds him back. Joker stuffs what’s left of the ice cream in his mouth and turns away. Clark rubs the back of his neck, tries to think better of what he’s about to do and still puts an arm around Joker’s shoulders.

It’s not exactly casual, Joker doesn’t inspire that sort of thing, but it’s as close as they’re going to get.

“There’s this… journalist I work with,” Clark starts and already regrets every word spoken, something like a great sense of danger coiling around his insides as Joker’s thin form sort of falls against him and looks up with hopeful eyes. “Her name is, um, Lois.” There’s no way he can take it back now.

Joker’s waiting for him to continue, Clark realises with a start. He does, hesitant still, after an agonizing moment of consideration. “We’re friends, _really_ good friends, except-- I, well, I think I love her?”

It’s not the first time he’s spoken the words out loud, just the first time anyone’s heard him.

“You're in love?” Joker asks, as if he can’t quite wrap his head around the notion. _Superman in love_. Clark himself feels prickles of anxiety.

“Yeah… Yeah, I’m in love with her.”

And isn’t that something? Clark can fly to the sun and back in the blink of an eye but he’s never found the courage to tell Lois. She knows about Superman -- arguably the deadlier of the few secrets Clark harbours -- but no hint of this truth has reached her. If Clark’s left to his own devices, it never will.

He catches himself then, remembers the goal here. “The thing is I’ve never told her, I don’t think I even _can_.” Common ground, a sort of unnecessary understanding of each other -- against all odds, that’s what he’s hoping to accomplish here.

When Joker keeps silent, Clark scrambles for an explanation, convinced he’s embarrassed himself and unable to tell why it matters. “I just thought-- I mean, I know how you feel about Batman and…” It’s easy to trail off, long past uncharted territory.

Clark might not have gotten his point across. It doesn’t strike him as terribly important in the face of the danger he’s just put Lois in for nothing.

“Well, that’s just awful,” Joker says and he sounds so unexpectedly resigned to his lot in life, Clark’s hold on him tightens for a moment. It’s easy enough to tug at his heartstrings, he just never thought Joker would manage it so effectively.

And it _is_ still Joker, not rendered any softer by the sentiment he’s risked putting forward, as if it’s normal to him.

7 AM manic episodes with superheroes on rooftops as a form of therapy. Clark _could_ get behind it.

“Yeah,” Clark agrees. “Yeah, it is.”

That’s all there is to it, really.

Something stretches between them, strange and thin as an eyelid. A closeness brought on by similarities that shouldn’t be there. Clark smiles and lets Joker maneuver his way into facing him.

It’s still unexpected when Joker smushes his face against Clark’s and kisses him.

 _Kissing_ sounds slightly too generous for what Joker’s doing, which is, mainly, keeping his lips on Clark’s and not much else. Clark, for his part, _can’t_ move. As he stares into Joker’s still-open eyes, flecks of yellow among all that vivid green, all Clark can do is wonder how he’s gotten here. There’s so much naked affection in this one simple gesture, he can’t help but think this is the only way Joker knows how to show it.

Oddly hesitant, Clark pulls away after another moment. “I should take you home,” he offers and smiles for good measure. It’s only awkward if he lets it and _that_ doesn’t need any more than a second to become a mantra.

“Home,” Joker repeats. He pulls himself up, skinny arms wide open like he’s waiting for a hug. No requests, no mentions of Arkham.

Clark feels a faint air of melancholy settle over him as he _does_ hug Joker and takes off. “Where to?” he asks mid-flight, though he’s already planning on leaving him just outside Gotham, if only to spare himself a lecture from Bruce, who’s never not aware of the comings and goings of any of the league members.

The mumbled directions Joker insists on are mostly incomprehensible and vary from one moment to another but Clark doesn’t have the heart to tell him he’d rather not make it inside Gotham. He doesn’t have the heart to tell Joker much of anything.

Their destination ends up being an abandoned motel near the docks, sun-bleached and entirely unremarkable, dwarfed by the warehouses it’s shoved between. Clark’s ready to make his excuses, should he need them, as they land. For once, Joker seems thoughtful as he steps away from Clark’s embrace.

“I’ll talk to Batman,” Clark finds himself saying, though it’s hard to tell how much he means it. Maybe he’ll call in sick today, go home to Smallville for a change.

Joker’s smile is a fragile little thing but the sudden glimmer of hope is plain to see. He salutes Clark, inexplicable to the very end, and walks inside through the seemingly unlocked door. Clark lingers for a moment, touches his lips once without quite knowing why then flies off.

\---

The elevator to the cave certainly takes its time and Clark feels the change of temperature in increments. He pushes up his glasses for the third time in the past ten minutes and sort of wishes Alfred hadn’t let him find his way down here alone. Any distraction at all would have been welcome.

Bruce, when Clark does see him, is caught in that strange in-between state, hair mussed from the cowl he’s just pulled off but the rest of the suit, the Batman’s armour, still remains firmly in place. Clark stares because he always does.

It’s a rare sight, maybe as close to _real_ as Bruce ever gets.

“Alfred let me in,” Clark says, carefully neutral, as he navigates his way to the worktable Bruce has parked himself in front of. When no response comes, he risks a closer look. The first stirrings of a black eye are becoming prominent on the left side of Bruce’s handsome face and from there, a darkening bruise trails down to his cheekbone. The cowl gripped tight in his still-gloved hands is missing one of its lenses.

Clark knows it’s nothing Bruce can’t handle. He _knows_. It’s just… hard to remember sometimes, that’s all. “Rough night, huh?” he hears himself ask.

“Bane.” Bruce unclips his cape, sets it down and finally turns to face Clark. He looks tired, like a little more of the world’s weight has been added to his shoulders. “You’re up early,” he adds and scrubs a hand over his face. “Or late.”

“Crime never sleeps,” is all Clark can come up with, confident enough that it’s one of those stock phrases he’s picked up from Bruce himself. It’s true anyhow, even if it’s Clark who can’t sleep these days.

A couple of weeks aren’t nearly enough to let him forget that morning spent with Joker. He’d made a promise then, one he still hasn’t kept. It’s why Clark’s here, why he’s taken the _train_ to Gotham solely so he’d have time to think even if he had merely ended up fidgeting the whole time, unsure of the right choice and quite certain this wasn’t it.

“Why are you here?” It’s a question, which isn’t entirely common for Bruce, who only states things and believes he’s being perfectly clear.

“I-- Uh. Joker’s in love with you.”

Clark winces, takes a step back too for good measure. He should be better with words. He usually _is_ , makes a living off it after all. “I mean, I saw him a few weeks ago and--” _I made a stupid, stupid promise_.

He can’t exactly say that, can he now?

Contrary to the kryptonite dagger he’s expecting, all Bruce does is draw in a sharp breath. “You’ve seen Joker?” There’s an urgency in his tone, Clark’s heard it before but never without the threat of imminent death.

“Yeah?” Clark stares, frowns then stares some more. “You… haven’t?”

The Bat melts out of Bruce but the exhaustion remains, he looks downright remorseful as he starts taking off his gauntlets and quite resolutely avoids Clark’s eyes. The words, when they do come, are slow and nearly whispered. It’s a bit like deja-vu. “No, not for a while. I thought he’d left the city. I think it was something I said.”

Clark hesitates too, unable to shake off the distinct impression that he’s intruding on something entirely private _again_. He asks anyway.

“What happened between you?” If it’s a gamble, it’s certainly a necessary one.

“I told him his-- _advances_ are unwanted.”

It’s a perfectly Bruce thing to say. Clark doesn’t know why he feels a spike of shock that’s a little too close to remorse. He should’ve kept his promise sooner.

“Are they?”

An unparalleled burst of courage.

“You know I can’t tell you that, Clark.”

Bruce steps inside the elevator with more than half his armour still on, might have even passed for impassive without that sad glint in blue eyes, the furrowed eyebrows and lips drawn to a severe line.

“Coming?” he asks.

Clark finds no reason to linger this time.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr @ufonaut. comments keep me alive!


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